Caybigan Part 22

"You cut that rope that holds me like a chicken," he said, "and I'll parleyvoo."

Gomez cut the rope, and the inspector agreed to keep his feelings unexpressed.

The procession moved on. The carabaos laboured, the carros creaked and groaned and wailed. The sun mounted, more biting every moment. The ladrones lit cigarettes and shuffled along the road. The widow dozed.

A more p.r.o.nounced lurch of her cart suddenly awakened her, and again her clamour was resounding in the heated silence.

Again it was the unlucky inspector. His cart had crept up little by little, till close to the widow's, and her eyes had opened upon the fact that he was not properly clad. Now, such a thing at times is excusable.

It isn't your fault if a band of pestiferous ladrones pounce upon you in the morning and whisk you out in your pajamas.

"Sergeant," shrilled the widow (with concern Gomez noticed that each time she addressed him it was with a diminution of t.i.tle). "Sergeant, dress that man!"

Gomez demurred. Again the widow sprang from her cart and sat in the road. Again the train was blocked.

"I will not budge till you have clothed that man," the widow declared.

"I insist upon a pair of trousers."

There was a hurried questioning of the band, a general denegation, and Gomez returned, discouraged.

"Senora, no hay pantalones," he announced.

"Give him one of your own men's," she commanded briefly.

Again the troop, drawn up in line, was questioned, but still more vehement were the denegations. It was not that they needed them so much for covering, those precious pantaloons; they were full of holes and covered little; but they were all more or less be-striped, and the men very properly refused to part with their insignia of rank. The inspector, also, was interested. After a careful inspection, a horror at the thought of placing against his skin such garments as were displayed before him made his hair rise on end. Diplomatically he suggested to the widow that a transfer would only add to the shame of the situation, for it would leave one of the ladrones with nothing on at all, while he, at least--

But he had p.r.o.nounced his own doom. "I'll fix you," said the widow briefly. Untying the bundle of clothes she carried, she drew out a skirt, a short khaki walking-skirt, and after an insufficient smoothing of creases with the palm of her hand, she threw it at Gomez. "Put that on him, my man," she said.

But the inspector protested. He, too, got down from his cart and squatted upon the road. And there they sat in the middle of the road, each behind his cart, the military man and the school-teacher, in a grim, silent battle of wills. And there was little hope of either ever yielding, for, really, they were not especially interested in the progress of the caravan. Gomez was, and at length he lost patience.

There was a terrific struggle, twenty colonels bit the dust beneath the sledge-hammering of the desperate inspector's fist; but numbers prevailed at last, and again Mr. Rued was in his cart, trussed up like a pig for the market, and, flaccid about his legs, the unspeakable garment. But his cart had to be left far in the rear, for he evidently considered himself released from his former promise.

And the procession moved on. There were minor obstacles. Once, the widow lost her glove and the command had to scatter back upon the road for a full half-hour of microscopic search till she found that it had miraculously caught on the axle of her cart. At the barrio where they stopped for the midday rest, she sent back six distinct messes of eggs to the presidente's kitchen and finally invaded it herself, till the muchachos, beneath the severity of her eyes, had evolved some turnovers satisfactory to her esthetic soul. And little by little, her bitter will was imposing itself more heavily upon the column. Colonels became muchachos and generals valets. When they stopped that night at Talisay, the best house of the pueblo was placed at her disposal; the presidente hustled at her orders, the kitchen was in panic, the household terrorised. Somewhat softened by her undeniable success, she sent for the inspector, who was brought to her, betrussed and beskirted. The long ride in the sun with his elbows together upon his spine had weakened him somewhat, and his remonstrances had sunk to unintelligible mumblings.

Graciously she cut off his cords, and as he stood swaying before her, "Well," she said; "aren't you ashamed of yourself, young man? Think of your mother; how would she have felt had she heard you a while ago----"

A last spark of defiance flared in the indomitable man. "My mother wasn't an old-maid she-cat," he muttered. But instinctively, in spite of his courage, his voice had sunk too low to be heard.

"I have a son," began the widow, again. "He----"

"Lordie, but I'd like to see the little nincomp.o.o.p!" said the inspector.

But the widow was unshakable in her good humour. She ordered a room prepared for Mr. Rued, and later sent him a cup of tea of her own brew, which he promptly threw into the face of the astonished muchacho.

They started again at sun-up. They left the road and filed along a narrow and steep trail. The widow insisted upon a chaise. One was improvised out of bamboo; and thus, as the shadows of night crept up the flanks of Taal, she made her triumphal entry into camp upon the shoulders of the four strongest colonels.

Papa Gato had watched the procession winding up to him through the high fern, but as it neared a sudden timidity sent him back to his hut. Gomez found him there, in great indecision, alternately twirling his little moustache and rearranging upon his breast the seventeen medals he had decreed upon himself for extraordinary valour.

"Greetings!" he said, with a forced air of decision. "Have you been successful?"

Gomez took off his sombrero and mopped his brow. "I have her--and the dinero--and a constabulary inspector," he answered evasively.

"And she is here!" whispered Gato with emotion. "I suppose I should go greet her."

"Sure!" said Gomez detachedly; "go on to her; I am tired, I'll wait here."

And throwing himself upon the cot, he turned his face to the wall.

But as his chief left the cabin, he sprang up like one possessed, rushed to the door and peered maliciously outside.

Indistinct in the gloaming, a feminine form could be descried, regally erect, upon the high-borne chaise. Gato approached with beating heart.

"Do not fear, senorita; we shall not harm you," he said softly. "You are our guest; the house is yours----"

He was very near now.

"The house is yours, and----"

There was a sudden movement of the enigmatic figure upon the chaise. A furious slap sent his sombrero whirling to the ground.

"You boorish little boy, you," rasped the voice of the widow; "you little brute! What do you mean, _what_ do you mean by standing with your hat on, before an American lady!"

IV

"Gomez," said Papa Gato disconsolately; "Gomez, I can't stand it any longer!"

This was in the commandante's hut, during the burning hours of the siesta, and ten days after the arrival of the widow. Gato and Gomez were lying stomachs down upon a petate in att.i.tudes of limp discouragement.

"It's pretty bad," murmured Gomez meditatively.

"We're up against it," went on Gato (all this took place in Tagalog, but is translated into equivalent English).

"We sure are," echoed Gomez sombrely.

There was a long, pained silence.

"Gomez," whined Gato, "I haven't a pulgada of authority left!"

"You certainly haven't," said Gomez, a certain appreciation brightening his manner.

"And you have less!" went on Gato.

"The she-cat!" spit out Gomez, all appreciation gone.

"She bosses the camp!"

"She sure does."

"We have to eat at tables now."